


The Indignity of It All

by ElleCC



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boys Being Boys, M/M, Minor Violence, minor Bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElleCC/pseuds/ElleCC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Well, it started with Draco flat on his arse and ended with Harry flat on his.</p><p>(Although that's not <em>really</em> how it started.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Indignity of It All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashadowonthewall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashadowonthewall/gifts).



> Written for [Marguerite_26's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marguerite_26/pseuds/marguerite_26) [First Times Fest on LJ](http://marguerite-26.livejournal.com/682557.html).
> 
> Written for [youtoxic's](http://youtoxic.livejournal.com/) prompt: _Harry/Draco - First time Harry hit him so hard it turned him on._
> 
> Unfortunately, the boys would absolutely not cooperate with me, and this _barely_ fits the prompt. But boys will be boys. [Potteresque_ire](http://potteresque-ire.livejournal.com/) had a fill [that was much more fitting](http://marguerite-26.livejournal.com/682557.html?thread=13259581#t13259581).

Draco is caught so off guard, he stumbles and falls, landing on his arse in the most undignified manner possible. He surges up and somehow completely ignores the smarting of his jaw where he knows his pale skin will show the imprint of Potter’s fist for days.

Potter, maddeningly—how’s one bloke _always so maddening?—_ doesn’t have the courtesy to so much as flinch when Draco swings at him. His glasses are knocked askew by the blow to his cheek, but Draco’s sure Potter’s eyes don’t even close, and he knows this because he’s focussed on the deep green and doesn’t lose track of it for even an instant. It makes him want to hit him again, harder, but as it is, he barely catches his balance on the follow through.

“Fucking hell, Draco,” Potter spits, rocking back slightly. His fingers brush briefly over his cheekbone before righting his ridiculous glasses. “Was that really necessary?”

Draco gapes, another moment of indignity—among all of Potter’s other faults, his ability to unsettle Draco in every way possible is currently at the top of his list of punishable offenses. “What do you mean _was that really necessary?_ Did you expect I’d just stand here? Are you mad?”

Potter steps back, finally, but only half a pace, if that. One shoulder lifts in a half shrug. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t have the decency to explain himself.

“And you knocked me over!” Draco reclaims that half pace and adds another, maybe two, getting himself back in Potter’s personal space. His stomach rolls over on itself, and Draco adds that to the list of things he’s pushing to the back of his mind. Like the already-forming bruise on Potter’s cheek. Draco’s fingers twitch at this side, and he forces his hand back into a fist. This is not the time.

“Well, you asked for it.”

Draco narrows his eyes. “Did I?”

Potter’s mouth twitches; Draco subconsciously reaches for his wand before realizing it’s of course not there, and then that hand too curls up tight. “Didn’t you?” His eyes shift from Draco’s as he glances sidelong to his own right, Draco’s left.

Draco refuses to rise to the bait. He straightens up with a wish—not the first—that he were taller than Potter rather than a deplorable two centimetres shorter. With all of this _indignity_ piling on his shoulders, it’s a wonder it’s only two centimetres and he hasn’t been crushed to house elf height. It doesn’t help that he’s barefoot—at least when he’s wearing his shoes, the thick soles give him an unnoticed advantage over the threadbare bottoms of Potter’s disgraceful trainers.

“I’m fairly certain your exact words were, ‘Potter, we have to—’”

Draco silences him with another punch. He doesn’t so much hear his knuckles crack against Potter’s jaw as feel the slip-shift of bones under and against heated skin. Before Draco’s even managed a full breath or shaken out his hand, his nose explodes in bright pain.

He supposes there’s some dignity to be found in sticking to his feet this time.

Over the rushing in his ears, Draco can hear they’re both panting now, and the sounds are loud, reflected back as they are. Somehow louder than they were ten minutes ago, when it was _about_ the panting and not about... whatever this is. Whatever’s happening in Draco’s stomach and a bit lower that’s catching him even more off guard than Potter’s first strike did.

He raises a hand—it’s not shaking, it _isn’t_ —to his nose and isn’t surprised when it comes back coated in slick red.

He holds up his fingers. “Blood, Potter. You drew blood. I do not remember mentioning _blood_.”

Potter squints at him; Draco notices he’s missing his glasses and feels a flare of triumph. Though it pales slightly next to his aggravation about the scarlet on his fingers. “Huh. You might’ve done. Maybe I hit you so hard you—”

For the life of him, Draco cannot explain why he goes for Potter _again_. They’ve done more than the necessary damage by now. But he does, and this time he has the satisfaction of seeing Potter’s startlingly clear but hopelessly blind eyes widen in surprise just a moment before his fist connects. Maybe because they’re tired, what with the Quidditch and the shouting match on the pitch and Madam Hooch subsequently banishing them to the broom shed to tidy it up (without magic) as punishment, the follow through and momentum result in both of them sprawled hard across the dirty floor, the back of Potter’s head landing inches from the wall-length rack of brooms.

“Draco.” The name is in equal parts gasp and groan, and it does nothing to quell that stomach-rolling that Draco is now rather disturbed to find is manifesting as an erection. Again. Already.

Sometimes Draco loathes being eighteen.

Draco’s landed half on top of Potter, and though _for the love of Merlin, this is not the time_ , he cannot stop himself from shifting until he’s all the way covering him. Potter mumbles his name again, far more groan than gasp, and his hands curl around Draco’s shoulders. He feels one of Potter’s feet start to slide up the back of his thigh. When a drop of his blood lands on Potter’s chin, Draco wipes at it, and when it smears more than anything, it seems like the best idea he’s had all day to press his lips to that place, to dart out his tongue and taste the coppery tang, before dragging his mouth to the corner of Potter’s.

 _“Draco_ , what are you doing?” __

“Maybe _you’re_ the one who’s been hit too hard if you need an explanation.” He tilts his head enough to ensure their mouths come together just right.

Potter, ever the obstinate git, rolls his head to the side. “That’s not what I meant, you arse.” He struggles a little, though it feels more like squirming. It’s wholly unignorable either way. Where their bare skin wasn’t already pressed together, it is now. “It’s near on three. The others’ll be here any moment.”

Draco’s lips brush the rising red welt on Potter’s cheek. “Probably.”

Potter turns his head back, and at the same time, gets a hand just below Draco’s neck and pushes up. _“Any moment_ ,” he repeats.

“I heard you the first time, Potter. I haven’t suddenly gone deaf.”

“Have you suddenly gone _daft?_   ‘Potter,’” Potter starts in that terrible would-be Draco impression he and the other Gryffindorks find so unaccountably hilarious, “‘how are we supposed to explain why the room’s an even bigger disaster now? Potter, you look a right mess, even worse than usual. Potter, we need an excuse or all my friends will know what we’re doing because Slytherins are the brightest and smartest and cunningest and—”

Draco pulls his mouth from Potter’s neck. “Most cunning.”

“What?” Potter momentarily stops struggling. _Writhing_. His heel has made it all the way up to the top of Draco’s thigh.

“It’s most cunning, not cunningest, you ignorant twat.”

Potter blinks and frowns. “Is not. It’s cunningest.”

Draco rolls his eyes, another thing to add to his _List of Affronts Suffered at Potter’s Incompetent Yet Bizarrely Strong Hands._ He moves a bit, getting his knee inside Potter’s and forcing his legs wider open. “Where’s my wand?”

Potter rolls his hips. “Feels like it’s—”

Draco pulls his hand out of Potter’s hair long enough to swiftly apply his palm to the top of Potter’s head.

Potter glares. “Oh, _that_ wand. Git. Over there, I assume.” He waves a hand to the right, toward the pile... well, more of a spread, really... of discarded clothes. “Probably. Why?”

Draco resists another ignoble facial expression. “They can’t get in if the door’s blocked, can they? And unless you are volunteering to get up and conveniently rearrange some of this clutter....”

Potter lifts his head and looks around, though Draco doubts he’s seeing much past the end of his nose. “Uh, _locomotor rack.”_ He flicks a finger vaguely toward the door.

Draco watches with dull resignation as the largest of the unorganized broom racks slides a good two metres to the left, more than effectively blocking the door.

He looks down at Potter, who’s grinning up at him now. “I hate you, you know,” he says conversationally.

Potter’s grin widens, stretching the purpling bruise on his skin as his own jaw twinges in answer and reminds Draco very much what he’s doing on the filthy broom shed floor with a disheveled Potter beneath him. “I know.”


End file.
